Simple Things
by Bialy
Summary: Van Pelt thinks she might not have ever been this scared in her life. In the aftermath of Russet Potatoes. Spoilers for 1x18. vPeltxRigsby. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: Don't own, no profit, just for luls. Lyrics are You and Me by Lee Mead.

Note: Another short little vPxRigsby thing, this time from Van Pelt's point of view. Because these two are fast becoming my OTP. Grace Van Pelt: boys want to be with her, girls want to be like her. Set in the immediate aftermath of Russet Potatoes, some spoilers for the episode as a result.

x

**Simple Things**

-

_you and me  
and all of the people  
with nothing to prove  
nothing to lose _

-

Van Pelt thinks she might not have ever been this scared in her life.

In the face of immediate danger, fear is different. There is very rarely time, in her line of work, to reflect on a developing situation, and digest the fact is something to be afraid of. She'll make an instinctive, immediate decision that what is happening is terrifying, and dangerous, and then the only thing she can do is _act_. Life-threatening danger doesn't scare Van Pelt as much as it used to. With a gun at her hip, it has lost its sting.

Wayne Rigsby is a completely different matter.

She knew he liked her. Of course she did. Having someone profess their love for you does kind of alert you to the fact that there might be feelings involved. But this, now, this is different. Before, it was like - well, she thought Rigsby had a thing for her, more like a kid's first crush than anything, and she knew she sort of liked him, too. There was nothing too scary about that. It made things uncomfortable, now and then, but overall…

No, the really _terrifying_ part, the bit that kept her awake at night, was what she had seen in his eyes when he was hypnotised. It wasn't the kiss that had done it, either (though _that_ had certainly done its share of damage - no good denying your feelings for someone when you wake up after a night of dreams of _just that moment_, just that second when his lips meet yours). The thing that had hit her like a punch to the gut was the way he had looked her when she'd asked him to stay.

No one else could get through to him, no matter what they said. But she just asked him to stay, and he - and the _look_ he'd given her. The simple look of absolute, unchallenged trust. Like he'd walk off a building if she said to, just like that. Like all he wanted to do in the world was make her happy. Like that's what he was made for.

Van Pelt, she's never seen that before. She's seen guys who wanted her happy, sure, but it's usually been mixed with a healthy dose of wanting-to-see-her-naked. This thing Rigsby had for her - whatever it was - it was just so _pure_. Like sunshine, like snowflakes, like first love and a smile in the morning after sixty seven years of marriage. It had been like holding his life in the palm of her hand.

And that scared her way, way more than any guy with a gun ever had. Maybe she can't cope with that, someone caring about her _that much_. It frightens her, this sudden intensity of feeling she's uncovered, and it unnerves her, that he doesn't ask for anything in return. He's never been sleazy, he's never tried to force her into giving him a chance, he's just been…well, Rigsby. Strong and tough and over-protective and alarmingly brave and more, far more, than she has ever deserved.

But he loves her.

He really loves her.

And she believes that, now. She always thought it was just words, that this guy hadn't really got out enough, that he romanticised every crush, every bite of lust, and painted it like it was love. But after the hypnosis, after the way he'd looked at her, after the careful tenderness of his hand on her hip and the desperate, aching longing that had been so tangible behind the steady firmness of his kiss…Van Pelt doesn't think she can tell herself it's just naivety and boyish romanticism anymore.

Wayne Rigsby is in love with her, pure and true, and if she's honest with herself, she's probably more than half in love with him, too.


End file.
